


A Wicked Thing You Are

by WaldosAkimbo



Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [15]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Devotion, M/M, Rejection, Roleplay, nicknames gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley do the bare minimum of role play when they get in the mood and Crowley still fucks it up.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789003
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	A Wicked Thing You Are

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be silly in that Crowley accidentally calls Aziraphale "Zira" and he hates it, but then it all got away from me and made me sad. So I just sort've ended it. I probably shouldn't even share it, actually, but, eh.

Crowley scuff’s his knuckles down the flank of Aziraphale’s stomach. The brush of skin and a dusting of silver angel hair excites him almost as much as Aziraphale’s mouth on his neck, mapping out every demonic vein he has. He gulps and moans instantly when Aziraphale’s teeth dig into the sinews, like he’s going to tear him apart. He might. He’s been invited to, naturally.

“Ah. I—”

Another low groan and Crowley has the back of his head knocked hard against the wall, sparking a bloom of starlight across his eyes. Second time in the moments they’ve started this, actually. Can demons get concussions?

The ache is only coupled with an angel tearing at his clothes, threatening to scratch his chest open. _Too rough_ , he almost cries out, but would never dare say it. The angel can’t be too rough these days. He can have anything he likes, actually, the excitement of their, y’know, _this_ so fresh that Crowley would let Aziraphale tear literal pieces off his corporation and consume them if that was his wish.

He shouldn’t think that. He thinks it regularly all the same.

They’re playing another game now, which has started when Aziraphale closed a book he was reading – not necessarily pretense, but he _had_ waited right until Crowley came in to do it, like he was waiting – and got up from his chair with all the regalia of a storm. He walked across the room and tugged on a little shoe-string scarf Crowley was wearing. Crowley liked them. He had them in every conceivable shade of light-silver, which is to say, _not a lot, but enough_. The burn of the fabric on his neck stung from the force of Aziraphale pulling it and elicited the softest moan from the demon that he should have known he was done for.

Aziraphale had grabbed his jaw and forced him to look up.

“And what’s this then, hmm?” he had asked, inching closer so that his body pressed down on Crowley’s, the weight of him steady and warm. A little shift of his hip and he was driving his erection into Crowley’s leg. Crowley’s eyes may have fluttered and he would have gone weak at the knees, you see, if he’d been standing against something to catch himself. As it was, he had to stand tall and pretend like he could fight back.

“Oh, you know.” His voice was already rough with desire, so it wasn’t that far a stretch to curve it down into a growl and he pressed his own throat against Aziraphale’s forearm, daring him to do something about it. “A little tempting. Is it working?”

“Tempting an angel?”

“Easiest thing in the world,” Crowley answered. And earned the slam against the wall in return.

It was a fun little bit of roleplay they’d been doing lately, soon as he discovered that it was something that riled Aziraphale up. Pretend he was evil, seduce one pure being who hadn’t done anything wrong, and get lovingly punished for his crimes against humanity. One hot and bothered principality really did love to manhandle, and Crowley was keen to help him get through all his knotted-up anxieties and guilt and shit he’d heaped upon himself all those years serving a Heaven that just did not seem to want him the way he was. _Crowley_ wanted him. Any way he damn well liked! So, it was fun, really.

“ _Az—_ ” Crowley quickly reaches up to grab something – bookshelf – just in time for Aziraphale to yank his trousers down to his ankles. There’s the unmistakable sound of something being ripped, and he wonders idly if he’s going to have to mend a seam again. He likes these ones! “Care….”

Aziraphale looks up briefly, big bright eyes, his cheeks flush, his mouth a tiny pucker that begs a question and looks too obscene near Crowley’s effort that he half wished he’d made himself a nice cock to push into Aziraphale’s mouth. Instead, he swallows his complaint. Nothing to be said! If Aziraphale wants to rip jeans, he can rip them. If he wants to scratch, he can scratch. If he wants to shout obscenities, well, that would be a rare treat, wouldn’t it, and Crowley moans at the thought and again when Aziraphale leans forward and laps a stripe between Crowley’s lips, pulling his clit into his mouth and sucking.

So, yeah. Walls. Grateful for walls. Love walls. Love holding onto them and thumping his own head back a third time, curiosity on concussions stripped from his mind.

The other half of this game, besides sauntering in same as he always does and pretend, he’s doing it as the enemy and all that, is changing names. Using things like “hereditary enemy” and “evil serpent” and “vile creature.” A lot of them are lobbed at Crowley. Definitely not because the moment Aziraphale puts his mouth on Crowley, Crowley forgets how to make words work. It’s not his fault! Aziraphale is a hungry creature and he loves Crowley as fiercely as he loves humanity and his books in that he may very well commit murder to keep what he loves for himself.

“Wicked thing,” Aziraphale mutters towards Crowley’s cunt, digging his fingers into bony hips. “Showing up during working hours.”

“ _Ahn_.”

“Begging to be punished, aren’t you?”

“ _Nnnhn._ ”

Instead of coaxing proper words out, instead of waiting, Aziraphale takes that as approval and begins to lap him up again.

Crowley’s bendy. He’s always been very bendy, in fact, and he bends himself into an awkward slope, with his ankles tied by his trousers, so he can open himself more to Aziraphale. He grips bright silver hair and bookshelf with equal desperation, feeling himself being pried open by that angelic tongue, that angelic nose, that angelic bastard between his legs and his mouth falls open on its own.

“Ah! Zira!” A hum, thoughtful, confused, _delicious_ on his clit. Crowley, emboldened by the moment, rocked his hips forward and continued. “Oh, Zira. Zira, angel. Right there, baby, right—”

And it’s like someone dumped cold water on them.

Aziraphale pulled away slowly, an obscene shine on his chin, and he took a moment to wipe his thumb over the slick, licking his thumb clean, while sitting on his haunches.

“What was that?”

Crowley had been dragged dangerously close to his first orgasm of the day and he bent in half. He reached to finger himself, just to get there, when Aziraphale grabbed his hand. Crowley whined, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s temple.

“What? What is it? What do you need?” Crowley whispered quickly, hoping to fix whatever he needed to get on with it again.

But Aziraphale frowned and scooted back, beginning to fix his bowtie. Crowley felt feverish in the moment. What had happened? He crashed to his knees, reaching for the angel again.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said softly and offered his best gentle smile. “I’m sorry.”

“ _What_?”

The shaking was perhaps endorphins, perhaps anger, perhaps fear of doing something so heinous that Aziraphale was disgusted with him, and he started to cling to him, hoping to amend. It took a bit for Aziraphale to recognize distress and lifted his chin.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“A _ziraphale_ ,” Crowley answered back, not firmly at all. It was the least firm thing about him, except maybe his fragile heart. But glass is fragile, and it can be firm, so….

“Yes.”

“W…what?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale repeated, crossing his arms. “Precisely.”

Crowley’s head was spinning. It was actually spinning and it wasn’t even the three knocks against the wall. It was spinning at the switch in mood, at the denial, at everything he did to do it _just fucking right_ for Aziraphale and still being denied without explanation and spurned and what the _fuck_ had he done wrong this time? They’d said “role play” and Aziraphale had explained, “pretend we’re ourselves but different,” and “we can call each other names,” and “we can end it anytime we like without explanation, if we so chose, but I do hope you’d tell me what’s wrong afterwards, of course, so I can improve upon the experience next time.”

Well, Aziraphale ended it and he had every right, but Crowley’s chest still felt like cracking open. He tugged up his trousers, angry that he was exposed while Aziraphale was sitting there, staunchly pouting, his arms crossed and all done up, even with his waistcoat and his bowtie.

“I think I’m going to go do some cleaning.”

It was a lie, of course, but it was a dismissal, too, and Crowley pinched a piece of his tongue between his teeth to keep himself steady. He nodded, looking around a bit, found his scarf and did it up, and got to his feet.

“Alright, Angel.”

“Yes,” Azirahale said, completely unhelpful and stubborn to a fault.

“I’ll be going, then?”

“I suppose if you like.”

“Right.” Crowley cleared his throat and stalked slowly towards the entrance, feeling entirely off-kilter, when Aziraphale made a little huffy sound behind him.

“It’s _Aziraphale_ ,” he said and Crowley turned slowly, looking at him like he’d gone and sprouted three heads. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “I don’t. I don’t _like_ Zira. Or, heaven forbid, _Azi_. It’s…I don’t like them.”

Crowley’s whole face felt like it was melting and his tongue felt so weird, then.

“And definitely _not_ ‘baby.’ I’m not a baby. Farthest from it, actually.”

Crowley nodded, collecting these pieces of information, something to pour over later when his head was on right. His face…oh his face. Well everything felt weird and wrong, actually, but he wasn’t entirely sure what his face looked like and he turned away, giving a little wave.

“Alright,” he said.

“Where’re you going?”

“Oh, I think this wicked demon needs to go have a lie down. Call you later.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whined, but instead of trouncing back to him, obedient and lovesick as anything, Crowley pushed at the door and pivoted, knocking two fingers against his skull in a mocking salute.

“See ya later, Azi, Baby.” And he disappeared outside without hearing Aziraphale’s inevitable protest, into his Bentley, and went home, indeed to sleep. Recover. Try again tomorrow.


End file.
